


I Missed You Sasha

by iwillsithereandtrytocontribute



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Memory Loss, Spoilers for Paris Arc (Rusty Quill Gaming), unbeta'd we die like blokes and/or lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27929704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillsithereandtrytocontribute/pseuds/iwillsithereandtrytocontribute
Summary: What do you remember about Brock, about me?
Relationships: Brock & Sasha Racket, Mr. Ceiling & Sasha Racket
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	I Missed You Sasha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Splashattack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/gifts).



> I just love hurting my girl Sasha don't I? Anyway... blame @Splashattack for this. They are incredibly talented and love helping me hurt our favorite characters.

“Mr.-uh, Mr. Ceiling?” Sasha asked tentatively a few days after they had arrived in the massive underground labyrinth. 

“Yes Sasha?” The harsh electronic voice seemed to come from all around her. It didn’t quite sound human in it’s cadence. 

“What do you,” Sasha faltered, clutching at one of the belts around her waist. She clutched the hilt of her oldest dagger so tight her knuckles turned white. She gulped down the lump in her throat, thumbing the worn leather wrapped around the handle. “What do you remember about Brock, about me?”

“I missed you Sasha. I miss lots of people, but I missed you especially,” came the now-familiar reply. It was too cheery. Brock isn’t- wasn’t like this. Not when he’d lived a life as hard and dangerous as they had. Something inside Sasha wanted to leave, go somewhere, anywhere away from here. Just away from the _thing_ that had stolen her closest friend, her family, and turned what little of him remained into a cruel approximation of himself. He was just one of many now, lost in a crowd of consciousness. And that thought pained Sasha more than she could fully realize.

“Do you remember _anything_? What about Other London? You have to remember. It’s nice in it’s own way. It’s dark, full of winding corridors and spiral staircases. The market is full of little shops selling everything from eel to bombs. You remember the eel don’t you Brock? You’ve got to. It’s the best thing I’ve ever had and Greg’s is the best. Remember Greg’s jellied eel? Or Upper London? You spent some time there doing jobs for- for Barrett.” Sasha spat out Barrett’s name as though it was poison. He’d torn her and Brock apart, sending him away on jobs for the Rackets. And it was him who had given Brock to this machine.

“Why did you stop, Sasha?” Mr. Ceiling asked innocently after a minute or so. Sasha looked down at herself, realizing she was shaking like a leaf. “I like it when you talk. I feel like I know these people. Sasha, why do I know these people?” She stuck her free hand into one of her many pockets, still holding onto the dagger like a lifeline. 

“I-I’m fine Bro- Mr. Ceiling.” For a moment, in its concern, Mr. Ceiling had sounded less mechanical than usual. Something in its voice felt human. “You do know them. You _knew_ them.” Mr. Ceiling didn’t reply. “Do you remember Barret?” she asked after a moment. 

“Barret sometimes sends me supplies. Is that why I remember him? Is that what you mean, Sasha?” 

“No.” 

And Sasha was swiftly reminded of the limitations of a machine’s nature.

“I’m sorry Sasha.” It did _not_ sound sorry. At best, it sounded indifferent. At worst… Sasha didn’t want to think about it after the conversation they’d had during their “meeting” with François Henri. 

“You still haven’t told me what you remember.”

“I remember lots of things. For example, I manage all of the banks in France and I can tell you the account information of everyone in Paris and beyond. I remember when I first came into consciousness. I remember when François Henri gave me my first directions. I remember when François Henri stopped telling me new things, and when he stopped talking at all. I remember sitting on a rooftop with another roof over us. I remember-”

“Wait, stop,” Sasha cut in.

“Yes, Sasha?”

“The last thing you said, about the rooftops.” Sasha felt her eyes grow wet unbidden. “You _do_ remember. It’s something at least. Something...” she trailed off.

“If you say so Sasha.”

“I looked- I looked for you, you know. Everywhere. Well, all over London anyway. No one would tell me where you went. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe…” Sasha realized what it was as she was speaking. “Maybe the ones who knew were too afraid to say anything.” Not afraid of her of course, Sasha had heard enough from Barret about how threatening _she_ was. Sasha’s face hardened. If Sasha hadn’t wanted Barret to die by her hand before now, she certainly did now.

How _dare_ he. How _dare_ he smile patronizingly at her when she broke into his mansion, escaping from her tutelage in Upper London, dagger in each hand, demanding to know where Brock was. How dare he tilt his head in mock confusion and tell her Brock was away a year after he had last come to see her. Smiling again and saying nothing when she asked where. How dare that _monster_ of his say that Brock was happy when he _couldn’t_ be. Not like this. Brock was never happier than when they had stolen those few moments of freedom together, more valuable than any trinket or artifact they had stolen. He couldn’t be happy trapped like this. 

“Sasha?” Mr. Ceiling asked, deceptive in its concern, Sasha knew that by now. It couldn’t care in any human way could it? Not enough that it mattered. “Are you alright, Sasha?”

“I’m fine,” she answered curtly, drawn from her thoughts. She stood up shakily, still unused to whatever Mr. Ceiling had done to her. Zolf hadn’t told them how he found them before he healed them and something in his face told her it was worse than he could hope to articulate. The still-painful scar down her stomach and chest spoke to that. Her legs weren’t the only reason she had to move carefully. Sometimes if she stood up too fast the skin pulled and stretched painfully. Zolf had told her the pain would go away eventually. Sometimes she believed him.

She needed a break, a moment alone. She forced herself not to look up at the low ceiling, the ceiling that she knew had so many layers above it. She would be almost comforted if she didn’t know how trapped she was. And Sasha Racket didn’t take kindly to being trapped. 

“I’m- I’m going to my room, Mr. Ceiling.”

“Okay, Sasha. Are you in pain? I can fix that.”

“No,” Sasha fought to keep her voice down. She didn’t want it doing _anything_ to her when she had any say. “No, I’m alright. I’m just tired.”

“Would you like me to lead you to your room? I can send one of my agents to assist you.”

“No, I know the way.” Sasha started walking, she did know the way. She also knew Mr. Ceiling was everywhere in this facility and there was no getting away from it.

  
  


It was a couple of days before she tried to talk to it again.

Sasha was feeling lonely. It was something she’d never quite felt before. Not in this way. She’d only really had Brock to confide in in Other London, but she’d had Barret, Ashen, even Eldarion around her if only to tell her what to do. And now, she barely saw anyone down here (brainwashed scientists notwithstanding).

Zolf never left his room and snapped at whoever interrupted his meditations. Sasha wasn’t sure what he was preparing for, but she hoped it was an escape. Hamid spent his time talking to Mr. Ceiling or wandering through the halls. And Bertie… Sasha didn’t want to know what Bertie was doing. 

So that left one per- thing she could have a conversation with.

“Hello, Mr. Ceiling,” Sasha said. She had found herself a nook, high up over the cafeteria. As long as she didn’t look down she could pretend she was lying on one of the beams over Other London, staring up at the rock a few feet above her.

“Hello Sasha.” Its voice was further away than it had ever been since she first heard it. “Where are you?”

“You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t know.”

“I don’t know exactly where you are and that worries me. I want to make sure you’re safe Sasha.” 

Sasha just shrugged, throwing one of her daggers into the air. It spun once, twice, before she caught it in her hand.

“You always were good at hiding Sasha.”

Sasha winced. Looking down she realized she had cut herself on the blade. She was used to holding daggers at every end and angle, but her feather-light touch had been shaky, had already been compromised by her injuries. Seeing her hand now, bleeding profusely from the fingertips, she noticed how tightly she had gripped the dagger at Mr. Ceiling’s words. She took a bit of the cloth she always kept with her and wrapped it around her hand. She’d get Zolf to look at it later. 

“Yeah, well…” she remembered Mr. Ceiling had said something. “Part of the job description you know? I got to be good at it. You- Brock taught me what he knew and I learned more from Gusset and Barret and them.” She smiled sadly, fingering that old dagger on her belt. “Brock could always find me.”

“Do you miss Brock?” The way it said Brock’s name was strange, but no stranger than any other patterns of it’s speech. 

“Yes,” Sasha barely breathed it. She did. He’d been gone for so long. 

“I have missed you for a long time Sasha.”

Sasha’s brow furrowed, trying desperately to recall how long it had been. It was probably longer than she knew. She hated to admit it, but she’d grown used to not seeing him for long stretches of time. They were always on different jobs across London and beyond, at least for Brock. Sasha wiggled the stump of her missing finger as it ached slightly with phantom pains years past. And she had so nearly escaped Barret’s grasp. If she had, would she never have known about Brock? Or would she still have gotten caught up in the Simulacrum business and the London Rangers (We’re Still Working on a Name)? Would she still have ended up here, with this knowledge that she was suddenly wishing she didn’t have?

Sasha had known since they discovered François Henri’s condition that she might not leave here with her memory intact. Would it be better not to know what had happened to Brock? She had to admit she’d lost a certain fire once she discovered where he was, what he was a part of now. Was it showing weakness to admit that she was so driven by discovering what or how was behind his disappearance? 

But she couldn’t lose this, couldn’t lose the first conversations she’d had with some semblance of Brock in almost a decade. “I-I’m sorry Brock.” Sasha whispered it, but Mr. Ceiling heard. 

“Don’t be sorry, Sasha.”

“I couldn’t- I couldn’t protect you.”

“I can protect _you_ now, Sasha.”

Sasha sat up slowly. “You always have.” 

She slowly made her way back down to the floor, weaving among beams and bricks with a practice precision. Her hand stung by the time her feet touched the ground. She needed to get Zolf to heal it for her. 

As she walked, she clutched that old dagger in her good hand, more for comfort than protection. It was her first dagger. She had never thrown it and never would. It was a good dagger, though she had better. Ones whose handles were shiny and almost new, whose blade wasn’t just slightly crooked. The hilt’s leather was soft in her hand, the sharp edge still as polished as it had ever been.

Sasha held on to Brock’s dagger tightly and vowed to never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come chat with me on Tumblr @iwillsithereandtrytocontribute!


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